


Don't You Remember

by phrenitis



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:42:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2252877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrenitis/pseuds/phrenitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing collection of ficlets and drabbles from prompts across lj and tumblr. Additional tags are listed within the notes at the start of each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Genres Meme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr meme](http://inkpenpencil.tumblr.com/post/96649346823/darveeeey-otp-otp-otp): one pairing, one sentence, ten genres

**Angst**  
“I think I’m in love with her,” Harvey says looking bewildered like he’s surprised by his own revelation, and even if it’s not news, even if Donna has known the truth for a while as she watched and encouraged and helped Harvey through this relationship of his, hearing the words out loud still leave an edge that slices deep, and it almost takes her too long to dig up an appropriate smile.

 **AU – Spies**  
Her talent is with firearms and access to a network of informants across the globe, his is with hand-to-hand combat and an affinity for impossible missions, and together they can disarm an opponent in record time with rapid-fire wit, and lies as smooth as a single-malt scotch.

 **Crack!fic**  
Halloween is a normal holiday affair he's mostly able to avoid each year until Donna and the trip to New Orleans, but by the time they're standing on the parade float as it rolls through the street to a cacophony of music and cheers, her body paint smeared over his skin like some abstract form of living art, he's not even sure anymore whose idea got them to this point.

 **Crossover - Arrow**  
“I bet he looks great in green,” Donna muses aloud as they watch Harvey and Oliver shake hands, and when Felicity makes a choking sound and looks over at her suspiciously, Donna just winks and adds, “I know everything.”

 **First Time**  
She learns what she needs to know in the time it takes for him to walk from the elevator to Cameron's office, and she's keenly aware what it will mean—why she suddenly, impulsively wants the challenge—and she's already sweet-talked her way into a transfer to the open secretary position with the associates before Harvey even finishes his interview.

 **Fluff**  
He holds Donna's beer as she readjusts her cap, the rest of the packed stadium on its feet as the inning draws to a close, excitement and tension thick in the air around them, but he can’t recall much of the game, isn’t even sure of the score, his interest entirely captivated by the company he keeps and the faint press of the ring in his pocket.

 **Humor**  
After he decides to pass judgment on her weekend Telenova marathon, she quietly changes his computer and cell phone language settings to Spanish and waits until he admits defeat.

 **Hurt/Comfort**  
He loses the case for her—no requests and nothing declared because she would never ask and he would never admit; everything they are is unspoken intention—and it's late into the evening when he finally finds her in the women's bathroom, her eyes still red and watery with conflicting emotion, everything that matters most in her world held in his sacrifice.

 **Smut**  
Ten years is far enough in the past that most details are remembered as little more than outlines of important memories on faded Polaroids, but the familiar remains a permanent mark on her skin, her body responding to lines drawn and redrawn in the drag of his hand, the pull of his mouth at the crook of her neck, a slow thrust to the tempo that still beats in her veins.

 **UST**  
He says it to her back as she retreats, casts the confession out to her because he's a coward brought to uncertainty by a simple phrase too many years in the making, and it's desperation that tightens his hand around the line spooling away from him, distance slipping between his fingers taking hope and leaving fear until suddenly she stops, a silhouette in the doorway caught by the three words stretching between them.


	2. Fic-A-Thon 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled prompt from the first [Donna/Harvey LJ community](http://donna-harvey.livejournal.com/) fic-a-thon.
> 
> Relevant tags include: AU - Bar Setting, AU - Noir, Established Character Death (Gordon), Missing Scene

**Prompt** : [Everything around us was once deemed impossible.](http://donna-harvey.livejournal.com/21589.html?thread=76629#t76629)

She likes to remind him of their first month together - how it was anything but harmonious and uncomplicated. How he tried to fire her twice though he didn't have the authority; how she cut up that godawful Burberry tie he loved; how he railed against her filing system because she didn't use it with the other associates; or, how she pocketed an easy $100 for guessing his password in a single try.

She reminds him that he called her _impossible_. He won't deny it, although he'll say _some things don't change_ even if they both know that the word's meaning has.

And from time to time, every few years or so, he'll bring up that first solo case, the one where he drew the short straw and spent the rest of the day only responding to questions in terse one or two word answers. He'll say something about those late nights they put in - how they ate takeout Thai for three dinners in a row and washed it down with cheap American beer, or how she was the only one in the office to put down money on a win.

He won't say _thank you_ because that's not how they've ever worked. But he'll talk about the champagne she bought with the winnings, how he said _maybe you'll do_ and she'd rolled her eyes and taught him a thing or two about flattery.

So when he passes by her desk, says _thirteen years today_ like it's a comment about the weather, she knows everything he means by it - thirteen years of insight and too many memories to even remember them all anymore. But she just says, _you're lucky I still put up with you_ and hands him his messages.

And later, at some point in the day, he'll fire her for being impossible, and she'll ignore it like she hasn't even heard him. Just for old times' sake.

==

 **Prompt** : [Hold on, to me as we go / As we roll down this unfamiliar road](http://donna-harvey.livejournal.com/21589.html?thread=84565#t84565)

"If I leave," he says, and stops. It's meant to turn into a question, but betrayal bites at his tongue because he's indebted to Cameron and there are lines he's not going to cross.

" _When_ you leave," she corrects like it's a sure thing, and he tries to ignore the flare of anger that ignites. They've been over this before - maybe only a few times over the last month, but each argument is verbal warfare where honesty is a lethal weapon; they both know too well how to make the other bleed.

"Not really my point," he says before they go down that familiar path.

She looks at him sternly, but he thinks there's some sympathy there too this time. "You have to decide eventually, Harvey."

He doesn't answer because she's right, of course, and has been since long before he even caught on to the corruption. It's impossible to ignore now - the way it mars Cameron's judgement, pervades the entirety of the DA's office.

"He'll win," she adds in his silence, "if you try to fix this case."

And he had been planning that very thing, so the comment stings just like he expects she meant it to. He shakes his head in frustration. "So I just walk away?"

She looks at him curiously, and then shrugs. "Only one other option."

"I'm not reporting him," he says with finality. There are very few definites in his life, but of those he will defend adamantly - he owes Cameron that much.

He waits for her _why the hell not_ or the sarcastic _your loyalty is admirable_ barbs she's taken to using. Now that they've ventured down this road again anyway, he knows what to expect.

"You'll need me," she tells him, and it's not even close to something he was anticipating she'd say.

He blinks. "What?"

"You'll need me," she repeats, straightforward. "If you leave."

It isn't even a question in his mind, and he briefly wonders if he should feel guilty that he'd simply assumed. His every day consists of her, so ingrained he forgot it's the both of them making this decision.

"So," he says. "When we leave."

"Champagne?" she asks, and glances at her watch casually.

==

 **Prompt** : [What are we waiting for? Why don't we break the rules already?](http://donna-harvey.livejournal.com/21589.html?thread=86101#t86101)

They’re sober, so that surprises him.

He never really wondered all that often – at first because it seemed inappropriate, and later because everything about the way they were was too familiar – but add up the thoughts across thirteen years and unexpectedly it was actually a lot of times, a legitimate fantasy. But no matter how he might have imagined the press of her lips or how her tongue would glide over his, it was always infused with the peppery finish from a Carmenere, or a smooth smokiness from a single malt whiskey, or even with the faint spicy kick that would linger from his bourbon. 

He supposes he always assumed they’d need the excuse. Or something like liquid courage.

But after thirteen years, maybe reasons and bravery and all those hows and whys are irrelevant. It’s simply because it suddenly feels like the most natural thing in the world.

He lacks words in the moment, so that’s another surprise. Too full of everything he wants to articulate – so many, so very many words available to him, and he tries to gather them up, put them in order like a well laid out argument, but he’s never truly realized the impossibility of words before. That there are too many that mean exactly the same thing, and not enough for _thank you_ or _love_.

And he doesn’t say those either, of course. All his words sound like feelings, and he doesn’t want to know why - just wants to kiss her.

So he does, and then he’s thankfully back in recognizable territory. Her kiss in return is softer than he expected – thirteen years building up a lot of tension in his mind – but, her mouth opens to his as he’d hoped, her quiet moan rolling over his tongue as her hands catch at his jacket.

The kiss is painfully short, more a promise than a finish, but they’re standing in the middle of his office after all.

“I always thought-,” she starts, trails off.

“Alcohol?” he guesses.

“Right?”

And apparently it surprises them both. Then he thinks about what that means.

“So. You thought about…?” He leaves it vague, tries not to be curious because it really doesn't matter.

“What?” she asks, looking at him knowingly, an eyebrow rising. “Breaking the rules? Crossing the line?”

He smirks. Thirteen years and he knew better than to ask that question. “Forget it.”

“We should talk about this,” she says, teasing. “Are you having feelings?”

He sighs because this is what he puts up with, and he really should have seen it coming. He points to the door. “Out.”

She leaves him with a saucy wink, and that exit is pretty much right on the money.

==

 **Prompt** : [Insomnia](http://donna-harvey.livejournal.com/21589.html?thread=117845#t117845)

The text pings quietly, a brief incoming tone that interrupts the silence. He doesn't bother to wonder who it's from - no matter what setting he gives the phone, unless he powers it off fully or removes the damn battery, she's had some sort of exclusive override profile set up on his phone for years. Her doing, of course.

That she knows he's awake is no surprise - he's well aware his insomnia is predictable right now, loss and grief still keeping close company beside him in the early morning hours when time slows down and thoughts catch up. The _how she knows_ is easy, but it's been over three weeks since the funeral, two cases closed and Hardman removed since, so he does wonder _why right now_.

He reaches for the phone on the nightstand, looks at the message.

_a philly cheesesteak_

At first he doesn't get it - is momentarily puzzled and amused by her 3am thoughts - and then comprehension arrives from out of nowhere, hits him like a punch in the gut. The memory isn't one he's thought about in decades and he knows he has never shared the story with anyone. How she knows these details about his life is almost frightening, like he's an open book available for anyone to read.

The phone chimes again and this time he's wary.

_he said to ask_

He should have known, and he stares at the ceiling in the dark, shakes his head. She always had gotten on extremely well with his dad - probably amassing a database of childhood secrets and stories over the years - no doubt contributed to willingly by Gordon. Even the things he tries to hide she almost always figures out.

 _i was about seven_ , he writes, and thinks about that late night at the bar with the soft music playing in the background, a sip of beer in his belly, feeling for the first time like a man. _dad was trading stories with the guys. said, only three things you need in life, son. baseball, jazz, and..._

He smiles, remembers the moment clearly now - the way he'd been so eager for the knowledge, wanting so badly to live up to expectation.

_and I looked down at the sandwich in front of me and said, a philly cheesesteak?_

The guys had laughed, teased Gordon mercilessly for that one. Is that what you call her? But those remarks had all been over his seven-year old head then, and he remembers the pats on the back, how he'd grinned with pride for a week.

_dad just looks at me with a big smile and says, you got it, kid. nothing quite like the love of a philly cheesesteak._

The memory is fond - not bittersweet or painful the way he expected it would be. It's a surprising relief - one of the best memories, nearly forgotten, but just as meaningful.

He waits for a response, but it's a long time coming - minutes ticking by as his eyes get heavy, and he's starting to wonder if she's fallen asleep when his phone pings again.

_smart man_

He knows Gordon had built a special relationship with her - their phone calls during baseball season alone were long discussions and arguments and game recaps that he could hear from his office. So he knows there's a reason his dad left that story in a message to her.

 _why now_ , he asks, doesn't elaborate because he knows she'll understand.

It doesn't take long this time, the response quick.

_i was hungry_

He falls asleep laughing.

==

 **Prompt** : [I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.](http://donna-harvey.livejournal.com/21589.html?thread=119125#t119125)

He meets her in Cabo at some dive bar off Lázaro Cárdenas when he’s three sheets to the wind and blowing a whistle. It’s not a proud moment, and shortly after she cuts him off for the night with seltzer water (no ice), although she lets him keep the whistle.

“Use it to call a cab,” she suggests, and he’s captivated by her sideways smile and the way her red hair is dark auburn in the light, pulled into a rough ponytail with loose strands curly and sticking to her face and neck in the heat.

He wants to say something intelligent, but law terminology defaults in his liquor haze, and instead he ends up saying something like, _the defendant has no history of alcohol abuse_. It’s obviously not his finest hour, but it earns him a laugh, and he’d happily quote everything he knows about the law back to her for the rest of the night if she’d let him.

Instead, she leans over the bar, presses a bruising kiss to his mouth – a moment so perfect, he still has his eyes closed when she whispers in his ear.

“If you can remember this in forty minutes,” she says, her voice liquid warmth, “come find me when my shift’s over.”

He knows, _knows_ he holds out for at least half the time – remembers making note of the hour on his watch, refusing to leave the bar to pee until his bladder forced him under no uncertain terms to the bathroom, begging someone to remind him later about something…

He wakes at the hotel with one shoe on, a nasty hangover and a flurry of dreams that don’t make any sense, and the imprint of a whistle pressed deep in his cheek.

==

 **Prompt** : [your eyes shine even in the smoke](http://donna-harvey.livejournal.com/21589.html?thread=161877#t161877)

It was dusk, closer to evening than twilight, the city steel-grey as if the night's rain had washed the color away. Inside the bar, piano music played, a mournful jazz number that sounded like summer's swan song. I drank while I listened, but the brandy in front of me was poor company. It was the kind of bleak end to a day that usually brought trouble.

The bar was dim owing to the cigarette smoke and burnt out light near the door, but the moment I laid eyes on her, she had my complete attention. She was all legs, a redheaded knockout in a slim black dress that accentuated her curves. Her lips were pressed together determinedly as if she held a secret in check. It made her look regal. There’d been a fair share of women in my bed through the years, but I was willing to bet she was in a league of her own.

She made her way to the bar paying no mind to the stares. I could count on one hand the number of dames who'd passed through the joint, and none could lay claim to her beauty. Everything thing about her was pleasing to the eye.

I inclined my head when she stopped beside me. She looked distressed, and experience told me it wasn't anything as simple as worry over a husband keeping some side company. There was always more to the story if it came in on a set of legs like hers.

"Your drink?" I said, and waived Mikey over to help her. The bar wasn't more than half full, but even Mikey was likely to forget some manners given the novelty of the situation.

"Whiskey, neat."

I admired the choice. A whiskey drinking woman was hard to find.

Mikey poured her drink without a word. I looked at her hand around the glass, fingers long and slender, as pale as porcelain. They didn't tremble. With looks like hers and no ring on her finger, she was turning out to be a bona fide mystery, and god help me, I was interested.

She turned her head a little and looked at me. It was a steady level look. I got the sense I was being evaluated.

"What's your drink?" she asked.

"I own the bar, sweetheart. They're all my drink."

"In that case," she said, and emptied the glass with a slight grimace as she swallowed, "you can buy me another."

She had spirit, I liked that. I nodded at Mikey to refill her glass.

"I know who you are, Mr. Specter. Your reputation precedes you," she said.

I wasn't surprised. She looked like the kind of woman who knew how to be resourceful. She looked like a woman with knowledge.

"I've retired from that business," I said.

"I'll make it worth your while." She slid an envelope to me. It was unmarked and thin. "I've been accused of evidence tampering, a missing memo on a high profile case. It's a cover-up, and innocent people's livelihoods are on the line. I've gathered evidence, but I need a closer, Mr. Specter."

"Closers are a dime a dozen in this town."

"I want the best."

She was steadfast, her brows pulled together with serious focus. It was exceedingly attractive. I opened the envelope. Inside was a crisp sheet of paper, a resume.

"This isn't my usual fee," I said drolly.

"You'll need an assistant."

"For one case?"

She declined to answer.

Her resume was impeccable. Three of the city's top firms were listed, and it was no surprise that her recent predicament stemmed while under employment with Daniel Hardman. I knew from unfortunate acquaintance there were few tactics Hardman considered off limits.

"I work alone," I told her.

She smiled, a corner of her mouth curled upward. "Maybe that's been the problem."

Her breadth of knowledge was truly impressive. I'd buried the past well when I left Dennis Cameron behind. Or so I had thought.

I finished off my brandy, thinking. I knew I was courting disaster even entertaining the idea of taking her case, but I was already caught up in the challenge. A fight with Hardman could get the blood boiling.

She must have read my expression because she held out a hand. "I won't take no for an answer."

I had a feeling this was true.

"This is a temporary arrangement, Ms. Paulsen," I said to remind her. Her hand was warm and confident in mine, her skin smooth as silk.

"Come now, Mr. Specter." She smiled with an air of playfulness. "We should be honest with one another, should we not?"

And right then I knew I was in trouble.


	3. Fic-A-Thon 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled prompt from the second [Donna/Harvey LJ community](http://donna-harvey.livejournal.com/) fic-a-thon in response to [enemeriad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enemeriad/pseuds/enemeriad)'s prompt that Donna dies and Harvey realises what an ass he was/falls in love with her.
> 
> Relevant tags include: Angst, Established Character Death (Donna), Guest Appearance (Donna's Mom), Louis Litt

He regrets a lot of things in the end once it's too late for change and the weeks following have bled into months that end up the same in their dull monotony.

The case though, that's an easy win. It feels like a mockery the two days he spends in court - so many years of life and friendship, and nothing of who she was even matters. It's _how_ she died, not _why_ , and he paints broad swaths of irrefutable guilt with all of his anger like it's some kind of emotional substitute. He wins, and no one is surprised.

Outside the courthouse, Donna's mother stands by his side, her hand finding his. She waits quietly for the car as his fist loosens in her grasp and he marvels at her calm strength. So much of Donna came from her, and he thinks she probably knows, and is proud.

"What's next?" she asks, and it takes him a long minute to realize she's not asking for herself.

His gaze settles on the building across the way. "More of the same."

"The best closer in the city?" she says with a fond smile.

Those memories feel forever ago. "Not anymore."

Her hand briefly tightens on his. He glances at her and is stunned by how familiar he is with the expression on her face - it's something straight out of Donna's arsenal.

"Well, Harvey," she remarks matter-of-factly. "You better get on that."

\--

Donna's will is simple as though all the complications and nuances and layers to her stop mattering in death. He stays angrier longer than he should, like it's her fault it's all she left behind.

But finally he stops reading it as a whole, gives up trying to fit the paragraphs together into a familiarity he craves. She leaves him the can opener - it's one sentence for an object that goes back to the very beginning. And her explanation is simple: _I have a feeling you'll need it._

There's a joke built into the message.

It took only one win for the can opener to become a ritual, and superstitions naturally cropped up after. This many years later, he doesn't remember exactly how it had come about, or really who was even the first to plant the seed, but they'd spent that moment on without can openers in their kitchens. At the time it had made sense to avoid using a can opener for its original purpose lest they jinx the whole thing. So until pop-top lids came around, they'd each devised a couple of semi-ingenious tricks to open canned goods - the spoon being Donna's particular favorite.

It's bittersweet - the memory and the reality. It's not a ritual without her, but he can't bring himself to take the can opener home. He puts it in a drawer at his desk - tries not to lose time to the past each time he sees it.

\--

He drinks too much for a while. There's nothing enjoyable in it, only oblivion, and he returns too quickly to awareness with sour bile at the back of his throat and leftover memories of stark nightmares that have no meaning.

It's Louis, oddly, that makes a difference. He shows up at Harvey's office door, long after the floor has shut down for the night, with a 25-year old bottle of Macallan in hand.

"In Donna's honor," Louis offers. And Harvey surprises himself by not turning Louis away, feels Donna watching him through the glass from a desk that's no longer hers.

Together they get drunk off scotch with Charlie Parker on the sax for company, and reminisce over the years they've shared. It's comfortable, more laughs than sorrow, and it's a moment Harvey could never have imagined sharing with Louis previously.

Conversation veers toward Donna on occasion, but quiet wins each round. So they speak only in abstracts.

"I'd have done things differently," Louis says to himself at some point, and it hits Harvey like a bullet. The comment wasn't meant for him, but it feels wildly appropriate. Despite their history, despite everything, he can't help but feel like somehow he let Donna down. It gnaws at him constantly, the sense that she was disappointed with him in the end, that she had expected more.

"I tried-, Harvey starts, but it already sounds like a lie, and nothing else comes out.

\--

Donna's mother sounds strong on the phone, broken only in ways too deep for most to comprehend.

"You have to stop being angry with her," she says, but it's gentle. There's so much of Donna in her it's both comforting and painful.

"I'm not sure I want to," he admits. He's not sure he even knows how.

"Oh Harvey," she says softly and he can almost see her sad smile. "Letting go of anger isn't synonymous with letting go of _her_."

Logically he knows this, but it still feels like an impossibility. "I think I owe it to her."

It sounds completely inane. But then he hears her laugh, and it's kind and knowing and eases the tightness in his chest.

"Donna always said you were noble," she tells him.

He smiles at that. 

\--

It takes another month, but he comes to the realization on his own. He figures it was about time.

"I'm in love with her," he tells Louis, the revelation finally declared.

Louis just blinks, and waits as though there's more to come.

\--

He knows she knew.

It wouldn't surprise him if she'd known for _years_. He never once doubted she could keep his confidence.

Perhaps he should have been more specific.


	4. LJ Prompts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled prompts from [LJ](http://phrenitis.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Relevant tags include: AU - Zombies, Guest Appearance (Donna's Parents), OMC Reference

**Prompt** : _kissing in the dark_

The lights cut out precisely at midnight, and it takes him a moment to realize just how late it is – Friday tipping over into Saturday without the least bit of fanfare. The building’s weekend safety lights extend only as far as the hall leaving the library in blocky-shaped, inky shadows that closely surround them. He hears, rather than sees, Donna step toward him as she tries to find her way out from the bookcases.

“I’ll call it in,” she says, and he can just hear the way her voice fades at the end because she’s tired. “Another hour?”

He means to steady her when she trips, to reach out for her arm so she doesn’t fall, but he misjudges the timing and distance. Donna’s closer to him than he thought, and he ends up catching her across the waist, her hand falling to rest on his as she regains her balance.

It’s her touch that throws him. He's rarely at a loss for words, but sensation overtakes thought and he only knows how her hand is soft against his, the contact so unexpected and completely impossible to see. And he suddenly _wants_ to see – to look at her face, to find the faint blush that he imagines would be spreading across her cheeks because it’s late and dark and quiet, and the combination makes short work of any notion he maintained that proximity could be benign.

He feels her warning in the press of her fingers before he’s even aware that he’s tilted his head down toward her. He pauses, his intentions wanting the better of him, yet he’s unable and unwilling to step away. There’s something about seeing everything in shades of black that makes the situation feel dangerously like a moment removed from consequence.

Donna is silent, but he can sense that she’s turned her head to look at him. It’s too dark to even make out rough features, but he knows it's only inches that separate them - that if he leans forward a little more...

His lips brush hers. It's so very light it's just a whisper, a sensation of touch that's as brief as it is intoxicating. Reality feels distant, like a future problem made more out of ifs and maybes than anything concrete enough to be of concern. The need to really kiss her is powerful, and it takes an effort at self-control to simply stand and to think it through. Without light, his other senses are heightened, and he feels the way her fingers shift almost imperceptibly to interlock with his, can faintly smell lilac and aloe in her hair as she turns her head again, and her lips ghost back across his almost by accident.

It’s like they’re testing the waters; they’d both be lying if they denied having the errant thought once in a while. But they’ve never pushed at the boundaries, never put an offer on the line to see who would cross over first. And it’s a reminder that their relationship has long been defined by the lines they’ve each established. The why of it not even a question he’s ever asked.

As if on cue, Donna steps out from his embrace, her hand gently falling from his.

“The lights,” she says as explanation, her voice low and smooth, although he thinks maybe not entirely calm. But she doesn’t say anything further, and he listens as she finds her way to the door and the sound of her heels fades down the hall.

It doesn’t take long before the lights return in full.

==

 **Prompt** : _Tan Lines_

“You look rested,” he comments when he gets in to the office and stops at her desk. It comes out casually, like an off-hand observation. But of course that’s exactly what it is, so that’s fine. Sometimes he notices things; it doesn’t mean he _cares_.

“I _feel_ rested,” she agrees. There’s a secret little smile at the corner of her mouth that she’s sharing with her thoughts, not with him. And yeah, he notices that too. She glances up at him then, the weekend-away-smile still in her eyes.

He just can’t help himself. “And how’s Jack?”

“It’s still Jake,” she corrects with a sideways look because maybe he’s made a point of making a point about the revolving door of boyfriends across the decade. “And we both had a very satisfying weekend. We took pictures. There’s even a video. It’s not my best work, but the lighting was terrible.”

It’s hard not to let his mind wander with that one. “You know, our Monday conversations used to be much more normal.”

“Really?” she says skeptically. “The Perotti-De Campo incident.”

“Not my fault.”

She waves her pen at him. “That was an entire _month_ of Mondays-”

“Hey, I apologized for the voicemail.”

“-that did not end on a high note,” she continues emphatically. “And if I recall correctly, and we both know I do, that tan wasn’t your best look.”

He can’t argue that point. Business and pleasure did not mix well, especially in the Hamptons. And it was Donna that had eventually gotten him out of that mess. “Okay, _that_ was an anomaly.”

“The Temmerman case,” she argues. “And I’m not sure if we’re talking about Mondays or tans anymore, but coincidentally, both still apply.”

He’d completely forgotten about that day and is amazed she remembers. “Do you have notes with you somewhere? That was over a decade ago.”

“Good thing those tan lines faded,” she teases.

“The aloe plant you left on my desk was a nice touch.”

She shrugs innocently. “I still maintain that I had no involvement.”

It was either her, or Jessica, and occasionally he’s convinced they conspired together. “Don’t you have work to do?”

She looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. “So I guess that answers the question of how much rest _you_ got over the weekend.”

==

 **Prompt** : _Zombie Apocalypse_

Donna hears the news first, of course, her face pale and tight as she stands in his office and watches the turmoil rush, chaotic and deadly, through the streets minutes later.

They are locked down, locked _in_ as much as the few hours head start allows, but it makes no difference. Even after the streets are overrun, days later when the city is taken and dead, the glass in the building shatters simultaneously. It's a wave from one side of the office to the other so abrupt that no one has a chance to react until after the sonic boom rolls through and large shards of glass are still collapsing, falling.

He looks for her first, without thought, and hears his blood rushing in his ears, the sound deafening. She's across the room, barely two feet away from what's left of Joe, the security guard managing the lower floors - his chest skewered and split from the metal beam that broke away from the lighting fixtures above.

He meets her eyes, his heart hammering again as she gives him a slight smile and reaches for Joe, grabs his handgun from his holster. She tosses it to Rachel and carefully digs out the other gun from what's left of his waistband. She pulls the slide, quickly checks the chamber and the clip.

Mike is watching them both, wide-eyed. "When... _why_?"

"Gun range," Rachel says, her voice shaky but strong. "Lunch breaks."

Donna smoothly tucks the gun at her back. "Why not?"

==

 **Prompt** : _Babies_

It's a slight edge to her tone and the subtle swell of her breasts that he notices first, and the thought can't be put away once it comes to him. It becomes fixed, a lasting question that pulls his focus entirely - his attention flicking to her with an uncontrolled regularity.

"Were you going to tell me?" he asks as she steps into his office. Her freeze seems to confirm his suspicions, and his stomach flips.

She recovers quickly enough, her expression neutral. "I wanted to be sure."

"And?" It's a simple question, and it's more meaningful than anything he's ever asked.

"You knocked me up," she says, exhales. "Congratulations."

One night - a great night, _fantastic_ even - so incredibly foolish, and yet-

He means to watch her first, to gauge her reaction, but he's smiling before he can pull it back, her expression matching a beat behind.

==

 **Prompt** : _Harvey + Donna and Donna's parents_

Harvey looks uncomfortable - it's not entirely noticeable, but she sees it in the way his eyes flicker over to hers, the awkward, stilted movements as he shifts in his seat.

"He's Harvard educated," her dad says, continuing to list Harvey's virtues. "Wasn't Julie's daughter engaged to a lawyer?"

"Politician," her mother corrects.

Her dad nods as though satisfied. "And look how that turned out."

"Harvey's handsome," her mom adds, not missing a beat.

"I said that already."

"It's worth mentioning twice; look at him."

It is an impromptu dinner party, and the only saving grace is turning out to be the wine. She's halfway through her third glass, Harvey catching up fast as she wonders exactly where the night derailed. If she has to guess, she's willing to bet somewhere at the end of that first bottle.

"Donna, isn't Leslie still available? Harvey, she's a brunette now." Her dad's attention turns to their side of the table as he winks. "Always was I'm sure."

Donna ignores the outline of a grimace appearing in Harvey's features and manages to answer straight-faced, alcohol and all. "She's batting for the other team."

Her mother shakes her head. "Shame. She has birthing hips."

Across from her, Harvey chokes on his wine and quickly turns it into a polite cough.

==

 **Prompt** : _the one when Harvey realizes he's in love with Donna, but she is oblivious / the one with make outs_

It's about her tousled hair - pulled up in a casual, messy ponytail, tucked under her cap with loose strands curling at her shoulders, alternately shining red and gold as the sun sinks, fiery and brilliant, below the horizon.

It's about her old t-shirt - blue faded almost grey, red Yankees lettering washed a hundred times, a size too big, a man's cut, but worn fondly nonetheless, and he's still waiting to hear the history on that.

It's the atmosphere, the sounds, the seventh inning stretch. It's her inviting smile, her shout on a run, her hand ever so briefly on his leg when she stands from her seat.

And when he kisses her - a thought hours in advance, an accident when it happens - it's about the quick press of lips, a breath, his thumb brushing her jaw, and a surprise that's simple and sweet and short.

So when she kisses him - a beat later, her gaze flicking from his eyes down to his mouth, the way she unconsciously licks her lip then leans in to him - it doesn't matter what or why or how. Her mouth is open, tongue finding his with a flick and a curl, teeth catching at his lower lip - and she kisses just like she talks - creative and utterly devastating. It answers a question, and creates so many more.

A sound, low and guttural is at the back of his throat, uncontrolled and wanting, his blood humming in a major key. There is a cheer from the crowd that filters in, a reminder, and when she pulls back, for a moment he feels her smile against his lips.

"Made it to first base," she says airily, her eyes on the game and a faint flush on her cheeks as she sits back in her seat.

He looks at the field, but he only hears her words - knows now how her every syllable moves against his lips, feels on his tongue - the taste of her consonants and vowels lingering.

==

 **Prompt** : _Donna is a dog person_

Donna is a dog person. And not that she necessarily likes dogs, but she has a dog. Probably something old and tired, pushing 14 years, a Border Collie/German Shepherd mix that she rescued when he was four or five - a mutt already too old to be wanted, and she was fresh from a break up with someone that wasn't ever going to be The One, but still hurt her anyway.

She didn't wait long to change his name from Charlie to something strong and passionate like Oberon because Shakespeare had it right. He's graying, slow, slightly hard of hearing although his ears will perk up briefly when he hears his name, or the Star Trek theme song, or something strange like _vacuum_ , and when he feels like it he follows her around the apartment, ever loyal, resting beside her on the couch while she drinks wine or watches TV even though she instilled a no-dog-on-the-couch rule years ago and still means to enforce it just he wait. And they hold one-sided conversations in the kitchen as he looks up at her from where his head rests on the floor when she goes for ice cream, then puts it back with a comment about "guilt" or "cruelty" because he's looking at her like _that_.

She doesn't put a picture of him up at work and doesn't bring him up in conversation because he's a _dog_ and that is ridiculous and what is she supposed to say? And Harvey knows, of course, has met him twice and can't quite figure out why Oberon chooses to lie down on his shoes - whether his feet are in them or not - over all the other available places. But Harvey likes him all the same, scratches him behind the ears and slides a bite of chicken under the table to him because Donna disapproves and both he and Oberon are in agreement on liking to cross that line on occasion.

So, she has a dog, and maybe that makes her a dog person, and maybe it just means she had a weak moment years ago when he happened to look at her from across the room with those eyes and twitch his ear, and she chose him without really thinking it through at all.


	5. Tumblr Prompts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled prompts from [Tumblr](http://inkpenpencil.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Relevant tags include: Episode Tag, Character Reference (Stephen Huntley)

**3x7 Episode Tag** : _Afterward_

Donna is the only one in his office when he returns, and this doesn’t surprise him in the least; he knows it meant something different to her. She isn’t crying, but her eyes are red-rimmed and her expression is closed down in a way that tightens his fists again.

He sits on the edge of the desk to prevent himself from pacing. Her gaze holds his for a long beat, and he thinks about how it bothered him, Donna and Stephen – and how what had taken root inside him is now something much bigger and uncontrollable. Jealousy is not a kind look on anyone, but he knows that’s the least of his problems.

It’s warm in his office with his pulse still fueled by anger, and he tugs his jacket off, winces as his knuckles catch along the fabric. Donna doesn’t miss a thing, and in a few steps she’s standing in front of him and has his hand in hers. Nothing’s bleeding, the skin is intact, but his knuckles are red and his fingers already feel stiff.

“We need to get ice on this,” she notes. Her touch is delicate, a finger running along the side of his palm in a way that almost manages to be a caress.

There’s no question about what he did or why he did it, and everything goes unsaid and understood. But he knows they’re both aware it has carried things between them further than they’ve ever allowed, and made what they have even more complicated.

Donna’s eyes flicker up to his, and he sees a wave of emotion there – sadness, anger, guilt, pride – and he feels the way her fingers start to curl into his hand, a reflex. She seems to be waiting, and he can’t help but want, just once, for it to be okay to kiss her.

It’s an awful thought given the events of the day, and he feels a flush of shame. But she doesn’t notice, her gaze on his brow as her hands move to his face, and she gently probes the cut above his eye.

“It’s a graze,” she shares. “No stitches.”

There’s nothing he wants to say to that, so he simply nods. Despite the beating he lay on Stephen, he feels unsteady, confused by how close Donna stands and how much that sways him. He knows he has to get his mind refocused somehow, and he picks up the file Mike left behind. As he’s about to open it, he remembers the photos, the evidence trail, and he hesitates.

Donna is looking down at the file, her mouth twisted to the side. But she stays composed and her eyes stay dry.

“I’m going to get ice,” she says, and heads to the door.

“Donna.”

She turns, but suddenly he’s not sure why he stopped her. There’s a part of him that just wants to hold on to this moment, to where the night has led them. The pause stretches, filled with words he can’t articulate, and Donna comes to his rescue. “Just tell me you’re going to make him pay.”

“Oh, he’ll pay,” he promises, and the layers of meaning run deep.

==

 **S3 Episode Speculation** :

Donna’s already outside waiting for him with an expression that tells him he’s going to regret the conversation that’s about to transpire. She’d been short with him all evening, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s because of the incident with Cameron, the earlier crack about Rachel, or if she’s still upset about the way the Pearson Darby Specter announcement went down.

“Alright,” he says, and knows he can’t avoid the discussion forever. “What?”

She tilts her head to the side like she’s honest to god trying to understand him. “Were you ever going to tell me that _I_ was the wager?”

“I was never going to lose,” he asserts, offended by the implication. The bet with Stephen had been high stakes, yes, but Harvey had gone in with the winning hand from the start. “He had to think I was willing to risk everything.”

She doesn’t seem the least bit placated. “Do you actually think that makes it okay? When I told you that you were out of control, I never imagined – although god knows I should have – how far you’d take things just to have your name up on that wall.”

“And it _worked_ ,” he reminds her. He doesn’t really understand the problem here.

“You know, Harvey,” she says and sighs angrily, “it’s bad enough you gambled your entire career on a risk, but then you put me right in the middle of it. You and me? We stop working the moment you even think you have that right.”

The truth of it stings more than he expects, and he doesn’t bother to check his next remark. “ _Stephen_ offered you up. I did what I did for both of us.”

If the information is news to her, he can’t read it in her expression. She just falls silent and looks away as the breeze briefly catches at her hair. Her relationship with Stephen is still new enough, but Harvey suddenly gets the feeling she might have fallen fast. And he realizes, too late, that she probably didn’t know the details behind the bet.

“I don’t get to have a life,” she says like she’s joking, but there’s too much raw emotion buried beneath it, and she doesn’t attempt to fight for a smile. He’s not entirely sure what she means, yet it still makes him uncomfortable.

“There’s always London,” he offers, and crosses toward the car. He’s not serious about letting her go, but he can’t help feeling a little apprehensive bringing it up again.

“Oh my god, Harvey.” She reaches into her purse for her phone, holds the screen up to him when he turns back around. “It’s deleted, okay?”

He’s more pleased than he’ll admit. “So I make named partner, and _now_ you want to stay.”

“I go with the money,” she states unapologetically.

He smiles at that and holds the car door open for her. “It’s time for our appearance at the party.”

“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “next time you could up the wager and get us a royal procession.”

“Get in the car, Donna.”

==

 **Prompt** : _Origin Story_

She’s the star witness for the defense, and it’s the only time he’s ever had the slightest misgiving for doing what he does best. It’s an open and shut case that’s his to lose, but somehow he thinks she’s already well aware of that. Davis & Barrow had always collected talent it didn’t deserve, and he’s curious what brought her to them and what still keeps her there.

He can’t help but appreciate the way she holds her own throughout the deposition - chin high and eyes flashing even as his questions bring a touch of color to her cheeks. He’s not gentle, but she’s feisty and smart, her answers seem forthright, and she throws _is that a question?_ back at him like a seasoned pro. She’s a legal secretary, so he really shouldn’t be surprised by that, but when her remark makes him smile, gives him a moment to pause in appreciation, there is just the barest hint of a smile in return that crosses her lips.

Competence and sass aren’t unique characteristics, but they’re memorable ones, and she stays on his mind the rest of the afternoon. So when their paths cross in the elevator by freak accident, he allows himself the short ride to study the perfect line of her back, the way her red hair sways softly as she turns her head to look over her shoulder at him.

They’re alone and it feels like an opportune time to say something, but then the elevator pings as it reaches ground level and the doors slide open.

“I’ll need a new job when this is all over,” she says thoughtfully, like the idea’s just come to her.

He’s unsure how to respond because, for whatever reason, it’s actually not the craziest notion he’s ever heard.

She gives him a knowing smile before she leaves. “See you in court, Mr. Specter.”


End file.
